Balthazar Cycle

Kaddish

‘Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.’ -Ecclesiastes 1:2

‘. . . he threw his arms around the neck of a mare
that had just been flogged by a coachman.’ -Walter Kaufmann (Nietzsche)

The ass must have its kaddish.

From ditch to hearse
I count my steps
hale the carcass
wear a mask

This will be a secret pass
through a town where clarity
is absence

I’ve greased the axels
for a silent stretch
hear the switch and gasp
at the shank’s grace

There is so little remorse
and suffering so boundless.

Crows and buzzards gather
along my plodding pace

I offer obols to the chaws
but the buzzards are senseless

Prayer is limitless
I seek Kavod.

The turnabout

If a man live a year or a thousand years, what profiteth it him?
He shall be as though he had not been.’ -Tzidduk H’din

A penny paid offers but paltry pleasure.

‘Five will get you ten!
But a quarter. . . fifteen!’

‘Two bits permits
a full night in the stable!’

In July’s ripe rank
the fair is where
the wares and cares
of husbandmen
are driven in droves

A market for yearlings,
suckling pens marvel
to the teat

Halter is a top
to make the breasts scream
gander your grok
from a blindered ass’s eye

Children ride these beasts:
wooly, blinkered, muzzles bowed
in pious -heard tell, mindless- effort

The turnabout.

Jument

‘Then the LORD opened the donkey’s mouth, and it said to Balaam,
“What have I done to you to make you beat me these three times?”’ -Numbers 22:28

Heart so full I had to look away
to allow my head to regain sway:

The quirt falls on the kulan’s back
in rhythmic command
it’s a tool I am told
and only a fool turns one down
cruelty never being a rule
merely utility

The harvest comes in fulsome
its price handsome at the exchange
if the feed allotment stays the same
it’s to keep the jument trim

A portion of profits will go
to an NGO
that looks after asses
in foreign places
their donors receive picture postcards
pinned to receipts
lustrous fur, ample feed
and gentle leads

501c3

In dawn’s heat
the threshing now complete
I think of that kulan
his fur’s lambency lost

We’ve tapped the sweet seas
greened the plains
grown cotton in the desert
and what does him honor
save eternal rest, now

It began with a furrow
and Cain recalls
his brother

Riding an onager
out at first light
toward the ochre
in the east
knowing all the while where
the tocsin is buried.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

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Timid -Kallan Simms

Timid

Outrage. Disgust. Hostility. Silence. At my core, I am very different than my family. I know- vividly- what they think of where I live, who I’ve dated, what tattoos I’ve gotten, how I’ve voted, my independence, what I eat. Open discussions with them are impossible. I have never seen my grandparents so deeply offended as when they found out I voted for President Obama. My grandfather thought it was a personal attack; I was such a good kid, how could I?

This is not my grandfather’s America. We are no longer carefully divided into perfectly compact boxes. We are no longer purely male or female, Republican or Democrat, “good ole farm boys” or “them others,” this or that. My American experience had been one of conversation, open mindedness, fluidity, acceptance. I had bet my education, my life, my income, on this opening of the old-school mindset. Yes to fulfilling the need to belong. Yes to acceptance of the different. Yes, love everyone.

Until recently. What was once a fluid, evolving creature has returned to the boxes we all fooled ourselves into thinking were thrown out. Misogyny is once again dictating what is acceptable. I am hopeful that this a localized problem; one I have placed myself in. I no longer have the capacity to lie and say “everything will be fine, it’s someone else’s problem, I’m insulated and well protected.” It’s simply not true. It’s made me timid.

This attitude is a direct result of the political climate. Living in a homogeneous bubble makes it too easy to be small, go unnoticed. To let someone tell you to be quiet, don’t be different. It’s too easy to ignore the news, let ignorance be bliss. Too easy to laugh at offensive jokes, be polite and demure. Be seen and not heard.

This is not the time to be timid. This is the time to be selfish. Don’t let anyone tell you the things that affect your family, grabs your interest, keeps you connected to other like-minded humans, keeps you plugged into society, isn’t worthwhile. My stance today has to be bold, it has to make an effort. I do not owe anyone, anything that comes at the expense of my safety, of my opinions, my well being. Whatever my own life circumstances may be, whatever may be invading my own opinions and thoughts cannot be ignored.

We must continually fight the distraction of someone telling us to be common.

Kallan Simms

Kallan Simms has been a satellite technician, project manager and is currently an IT professional. Among those dull things, she also workers with raptors, dabbles in fiction writing, poorly maintains a DIY blog and dreams of living off the land. She lives in Wyoming with her husband, greyhound puppy (child), and ever-growing supply of books.

Fold’s point

Fold’s point

When I was thirteen and we first went to Boston
I met RFK’s silhouette

What the impact was
what that profile meant
introduced a certainty that
I could go on to The Kennedy School
staying true to kismet

My father said get perfect grades
you should never err-

Yes, dad.

But none of it happened;
the tests didn’t ask rhetorical questions
such as

Is it right to hold private what
your public plan

Or

Is want a foot pressed down
like a blindfold

I was merely a teen
and thought I could gain hold
of a disposition

But disposed to further dreaming
I see the fabric’s fold from the fold’s point
of meaning.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

This poem appeared in the Spring/Summer 2017 edition of Word Fountain. You can hear me read it here: https://wordfountain.net/2017/06/30/jeremy-nathan-marks-spring-summer-2017/

Wrinkled Legacy of Elder Hands -Kevin Ridgeway

Wrinkled Legacy of Elder Hands

made of paper
from depression era grit
and hard fought survival in the
wisdom
of their raspy breath,
survivors of tent cities
and bread lines and proud
service
their sweet rock candy
mountain optimism
their don’t get fresh sense of
decency
their cosignature of the New
Deal
and their gypsy bonnets in
black and white
scrolls of their humble houses
built with
their bare hands
triumphs over greed
that gave me something
to worship,
their medicine show
power of the people
who built the great nations
and their unwavering
optimism in the
face of bad political machines
they fought
to dismantle from the desire
to
bury what can never be
undone in the minds
of grandchildren who cast
ballots and remember,
always remember what the
old folks said
was right and just and for us
all.

Kevin Ridgeway

Kevin Ridgeway lives and writes in Long Beach, CA. A two-time Pushcart Prize Nominee, recent work has appeared in Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Trailer Park Quarterly, Big Hammer, San Pedro River Review, Lummox, Spillway and Cultural Weekly, among many others. He is the author of six chapbooks of poetry, including All the Rage (Electric Windmill Press), On the Burning Shore (Arroyo Seco Press) and Contents Under Pressure (Crisis Chronicles Press).

The new thing -by Susan Daniels

The new thing

The new thing’s not cloth so beautiful
only the 1% can see its shimmer
and its not cake sweet in one slice
while the rest is cardboard construct
its everything

not in absolute but swing.
We have different sets of fact
instead of simple opinion
like plain plates for family suppers
and Royal Daulton for company
but all the edges are gilt
skimmed over relativity,
our flexibility bending jointlessly
and against anatomy

The emperor
simply faked a set of clothes.
we’re doing so much more than that.
Pulling prosperity from air,
renaming success from bankruptcy
and we’re doing it with ideas
too large for our small heads.

If we speak it, it is so.
If we stay silent, it never was.

Susan Daniels

Susan Daniels is a poet, activist and mother to cats and children who lives in Western New York. Follow Susan here: https://susandanielspoetry.com